by Nick Gisburne
It’s plausible my heart is now a ghost
That wretched bag of blood no longer beats
Preoccupied, I drove into a post
While looking at the presents on the seats
The tangy scent of lemons nipped my nose
’Twas bleach, a bottle, broken, so I thought
A panic seemed to grip me, and I froze
Would all this Christmas wrapping be for nought?
My scrambled senses realised the need
To move the most expensive gifts away
But when my chest began to freely bleed
I knew I must have overturned the sleigh
If I am dead, the little ones must wait
Without a heartbeat, Santa will be late
